


Such Sweet Sorrow

by ForestSeaWitch



Series: The Monster You Know [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extreme Distress, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Trauma Bonding, past trauma, we do not beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23013847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestSeaWitch/pseuds/ForestSeaWitch
Summary: Yeah this is where the boys part ways for a bit. You'll be getting chapter updates for them both individually as their stories progress. I do promise an eventual happy ending, though!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Ramsay Bolton
Series: The Monster You Know [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642081
Comments: 12
Kudos: 113





	Such Sweet Sorrow

Jaskier had woken up with his face still pressed into Geralt’s chest. The witcher had to be awake, as evidenced by the stretch and grunt from him a few moments after the bard had opened his eyes. He wasn’t prepared to peel himself away yet, for the comfort Geralt was providing. Perhaps the witcher could tell in some way, as he slid his palm over Jaskier’s back in a soothing motion. The bard groaned softly, not caring that they were both naked, or that he had desired this for longer than he cared to admit. Jaskier nearly fell back to sleep, as well, and the gentle stroke to push his hair behind his ear could have cemented it, had the world remained silent.

**”Don’t fall asleep,”** the witcher read his mind.

**”I’m not,”** he sleepily protested.

Geralt chuckled, and slowly began to sit up, bringing Jaskier with him. The bard pouted and held on, refusing to acknowledge that they had to prepare for the day. He wasn’t ready yet. Somehow in the process, Jaskier ended up with his head in Geralt’s lap, still with his eyes tightly shut. He would not admit to how the slow, measured strokes to his head sent shivers down his spine. And he would absolutely not tell Geralt to stop. 

**”Jaskier…”** Geralt sounded more patient than he had ever known the witcher to be. The bard whined, turning his head to look up, making sure to plaster on the fattest pout he could muster. The witcher was smiling softly down at him, and it made Jaskier’s heart attempt to leap from his chest. **”We ought to get back onto the road.”**

The bard sighed dramatically, attempting to get up and immediately flopping back into Geralt’s lap. **”Can’t we just sleep a little longer?”** Those fingers raked through his hair again, and another shuddered slithered down his spine. 

**”No, Jaskier. Do you want some breakfast?”** Jaskier shook his head, and Geralt stopped brushing through his hair. He frowned at the loss of that pleasant, tingling sensation, and then felt the large hand pat his shoulder twice. **”Then it’s time to get up and get dressed. Come on.”**

Jaskier finally sat up, crossing his arms just so he could fully pout at Geralt. The witcher seemed to find that amusing, and ruffled his hair before going to change himself. **”You’re insufferable, you know,”** Jaskier called after him. He was half tempted to just lie back down and nap a little longer. It would only result in Geralt’s annoyance, and he’d been in such a rare mood this past fortnight that Jaskier was not willing to risk it.

The bard pulled himself out of bed and walked to stand before the tall mirror, dressed only in his smallclothes. He turned from one side to the other, looking at himself. Jaskier ran a hand over his chest, rather liking that he’d been able to grow a fine tuft of hair after all. He frowned a little as he turned to the side, poking at his own ribs. He glanced up and noticed Geralt watching him. Jaskier flushed slightly, and attempted to look like he was just stretching before going for his clothes. For a moment it seemed as though the witcher was going to say something. Thank Melitele he did not, because Jaskier was not prepared to begin his day with _that_ particular conversation. Maybe another time. Maybe never. 

**”So. North?”** Bless him, he was trying to avoid it as much as Jaskier was. 

**”Yes. So long as we keep the coast fairly close to our sights we should be fine. Why couldn’t the ship take us all the way to Pyke? Ah…nevermind.”** But then Jaskier remembered what the renowned Greyjoys were like. How malicious, terrible, and violent they were. Gods, and _that_ was their aim? At least Geralt could hold his own against an island of drunken pirates, he supposed. Ah, and now he remembered. The Iron Islands were notoriously dangerous to navigate, even for the most skilled of captains. Only a pilot from the islands could make their way through, confidently and safely. 

**”You look fine,”** the witcher grunted, as Jaskier was adjusting his tunic, once again in the mirror. Was that his way of trying to pay a compliment, or was Geralt just very tired of him taking long to get his clothing situated? 

**”Yes yes, it’s why you’ve put up with me for so long isn’t it? My boyish charm and good looks.”** That got him a short laugh, and finally, they were able to get on their way.  


  


* * *

  


  
The crisp of the air told Jaskier that it would soon be winter. It made him think of those damned Starks, and he wondered what they were up to. Likely relieved that his father was dead, though who would not be? Even after he had gotten over the shock of hearing Roose was dead, he’d felt a weight off his shoulders. Being discovered was much less of a threat now, because there was no way for Roose to hear of it and demand he return home. Gods he wanted nothing less than seeing that pathetic excuse of a manor again.

Despite the clear, beautiful day, he shivered with the breeze. Perhaps they ought to buy some furs, if it was set to become much colder. Jaskier quite liked the idea of seeing Geralt in some big, white fur cloak. It suited him, his white wolf. No, _the_ white wolf. Not his. Still, the imagery was rather nice, and he supposed coming back home with foreign furs could be titillating for his songs. His daydreaming was cut short as Geralt pulled back on the reigns, bringing Roach to a hault.

**”Ah pardon, but why are we stopping? This…this isn’t the road.”** They’d gone off a side path, it seemed. 

**”Midday meals, little lark.”** Now that was unfair. Geralt had called him that before, but each time felt like the first. His pet name that made Jaskier’s stomach flip over itself, and he suspected the witcher knew what it did to him. Now he was sure of it, and how dare Geralt use that to try and make him accept this interruption to their day. 

**”I’m not _that_ much smaller than you,”** height wise, anyway, **”And we have a ways to go before we’re getting anywhere. Making camp in Westeros is nothing like it is on the Continent.”** Hence, they should try to cover as much land as possible in one day. Jaskier was sure he could sleep upright on the horse, if only Geralt would listen, for once.

**”It’s worse if we’re too weak to make camp.”**

Jaskier scoffed, and refused to dismount from Roach, even as Geralt did so. No, the bard sat in the saddle, arms crossed as he stared down at the witcher. When he got an irritated look for it, he rose a challenging eyebrow. **”We don’t need to stop for food, Geralt. We have fruits and nuts, and you can go for longer than half a day without eating at all, let alone a snack. You’re a _witcher_ ,”** he reminded Geralt. 

**”And you’re human. You barely ate breakfast.”** Jaskier nearly betrayed himself then, but caught his own expression and continued to frown at the witcher. 

**”You pay attention to what I eat?”** He’d meant to make himself sound incredulous and irritated, but found that his tone betrayed itself, in sounding slightly paranoid and fearful. Geralt reached for his hand, and gods his patient streak was still going strong. Jaskier rolled his eyes and accepted the hand to help him down.

**”Yes.”** Such a straightforward answer was hardly reassuring. And naturally, Geralt had to make it even worse, by speaking further on it. **”I watch you. You barely eat, bard. Is it because I brought you here?”** Oh gods, now the witcher thought it was his fault. That sent a pang of guilt through Jaskier’s stomach. It could have been the reminder of hunger, but mostly it was the guilt. 

**”It’s not because of that. You haven’t done anything,”** he looked as miserable as he sounded. Jaskier busied himself with finding the pack that held their food. It was painfully obvious that Geralt was staying silent, giving him the space to fill. And of course he would, Jaskier hated silence. Silence brought doubt and uncertainty, and so long as he was thinking, singing, or speaking aloud, he wouldn’t have to hear the emptiness that surrounded him. 

**”I was rather…I was a chubby child. For a time.”** Jaskier gave up when Geralt reached for the correct bag. **”My brother would torment me because of it. Steal my food.”** He found a rather sizeable rock, rubbing his face with both palms. Geralt remained silent, and Jaskier looked up at the witcher, who held out an apple and two slices of dried meat to him. He supposed if it would appease Geralt, then he would eat them. 

**”His was…it was not schoolyard bullying. Even when I was skin and bones he’d say I was far too fat to be allowed to eat much of anything. I’m afraid it’s made me…well I don’t have much of a stomach these days.”** Jaskier looked away and ripped off a bite of the dried meat. He ought to have known that being here would bring all these unpleasant memories back to the surface. 

Geralt sat with him, only resting a hand on his shoulder while the bard ate. The witcher had no midday meal.  


  


* * *

  


  
The ride had been no more perilous than ever, though Jaskier found himself having to chide Geralt once more for his hair. They passed a group of rowdy young men, Lannister soldiers by the looks of them, which Jaskier would have found odd, had they not begun taunting the witcher for his silvery locks. He had found his hands instinctively reaching for the reigns, in case Roach needed a sudden spur, but Geralt had simply ignored them all and kept pace. Thank the gods they left it at that. _”This is why we must dye your hair,”_ he’d grumped at the witcher. 

The sky had begun to turn a dusty purple by the time Geralt began to make camp. Jaskier had taken to tuning his lute, though he couldn’t say he was feeling particularly musical. It was good practice, however, and he would have so much material to fill his songs once they left Westeros for good. Oh he was set to give Geralt quite a verbal hiding, once the country was out of their sights. He would never allow this to happen again, this journey to his homeland. Jaskier supposed that if he’d told Geralt _where_ he was from in the first place, then the witcher would have never taken the job. Or if Jaskier had actually listened when he said where they were going. Still, why take work that required a boat ride _and_ extra traveling, for the sake of some coin? 

**”Are you hungry?”** Geralt asked him, securing their tent in place. Jaskier thought about it for a moment, glad at least that the witcher had asked. After the bits of meat and apple earlier, he had felt a tad uncomfortably full, but no worse off for it, he supposed. Jaskier shrugged in a way that suggested he was almost saying yes, but would be fine if they didn’t eat yet. Geralt hummed in consideration before he began arranging stones for a fire pit. **”Why don’t you…maybe tell me a little?”**

Jaskier looked up at the witcher, seemingly unsure of how he was meant to feel in that moment. Did he feel incredulous and insulted, or relieved that someone might finally know what he’d gone through, and hold the burden with him? **”I…I don’t know, Geralt. What I told you before, the dreams and…that’s the first I’ve spoken out loud about all that.”** There was a tightness in his chest as he thought about it. But he’d never _wanted_ to tell anyone about his past before. Not like he wanted to spill the whole of his mind to Geralt, to share in it with the witcher and no longer be alone with his memories and nightmares. 

**”You don’t have to answer now,”** Geralt reassured him, and even held his hand out for Jaskier to stay, when the bard stood to assist in building the fire. **”Just think on it, Jaskier. Whatever you want to tell me. If anything. I will listen.”**

He sat back down, strumming gently on his lute and refining the tightness of each string until he was satisfied. The fire was roaring by the time he had packed it away again, chasing away the chill that came with nightfall. Geralt silently took a seat five paces away, pretending to watch the wood burn and crack. Jaskier eventually stood and walked over, sitting next to him. **”If it’s alright, I’d like to-”**

Jaskier didn’t even have to finish the statement, finding Geralt’s arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tightly. The bard found himself pulled into the witcher’s lap, cradled like a child. His own mother had never even held him like this, and it made tears well up into his eyes instantly. A shaky breath slid out of him, making him shiver as though the fire was barely touching him. Geralt’s hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back. Jaskier nuzzled his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, breathing in his smell. He smelled mostly like horse and sweat. And yet it was a scent Jaskier had become rather fond of, and found comfort in. 

**”I…left when I was fourteen. Because of my brother.”** Jaskier sighed, feeling tears begin to stream down his face. But he could speak steadily, and that was something. Geralt was thankfully silent, and above all _patient_.  


  


* * *

  


  
_**”Reek? Reek you little shit. I’m going to find you.”** It had been yet another day of Ramsay’s psychological torture. Jeymes Bolton had hidden himself in the stables, being as silent as possible. If he was lucky, his father’s horse would stomp him to death before Ramsay found him buried beneath the hay. He should have been a lot larger at this age, beginning to build muscle and bulk, but his bastard half-brother had always ensured he had very little to eat, and that what he_ did _eat was very low quality. It helped in these moments, though, when he needed to hide away in small spaces._

_**”Find him,”** he heard Ramsay’s slippery voice growl. Fuck. He’d brought the dogs. Jeymes had seen the way Ramsay trained those things, and it broke his heart. He tried to save one of the puppies, once, but his brother had ripped it from his arms and smashed its head into the ground. Jeymes could still remember the smell and feel of its blood and brains, when Ramsay had smeared it on his face. It was to remind him who the dogs belonged to, which was not fat trueborn sons. _

_Jeymes heard sniffing and shuffling in the stall he’d hidden himself in. He put both hands firmly over his mouth and prayed that the old gods protected him from discovery. They were either busy or not listening, as teeth suddenly sank into his ankle. Jeymes shrieked, clawing at the ground and stall as he was roughly pulled out from the haystack. He didn’t even hear Ramsay’s sharp command for the hound to drop him, but instantly felt the weight of his brother on his back, pinning him to the cold, hard ground. **”Please, Ramsay! I…I didn’t do anything! Please, I won’t tell father again. I won’t!”** _

_The Bastard of Bolton was never one to be swayed by begging, and Jeymes ought to have known by now that his sobbing only spurned on Ramsay’s attention. **”He took my horse, Reek. Because of you. Because of your little, whining, wormy fucking mouth. Maybe I ought to knock out those teeth of yours, or sew those lips shut. Maybe then you'll learn your place.”** Jeymes squealed and writhed, but as Ramsay cruelly laughed, he found his body just…stopping. His breathing was shallow and fast, and he stared blankly. His vision was blurred by the tears that filled his eyes, making his pools of shallow ocean even more like water. _

_He’d never felt his entire being slow down like this before. It was like his spirit had been completely broken, and Jeymes couldn’t fight back any longer. **”Get up.”** Ramsay grabbed his hair, slamming his face into the ground. And still, he couldn’t fight. He could barely_ breathe. _And this apparently angered his brother, who slammed his face into the ground again. He could taste blood in his mouth, and felt the pain in his cheek. And yet he…he couldn’t move._

_**”Get UP!”** Ramsay got off him, aiming a rough kick to his ribs. Jeymes only let out a small whimper, and didn’t even turn to look up at Ramsay. After a few more kicks, the bastard apparently grew tired and bored of him. **”Pathetic little shit. Rot for all I care. You already smell of it.”** Jeymes laid there for a bit longer, and honestly did feel as though that was the place he would die. Somehow, the life returned to him, and he bolted up with a gasp. And then he ran. Back to his house, back to safety, for one last time._  


  


* * *

  


  
Jaskier had wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck, holding on tightly as sobs began to shake through him. He’d managed to tell the story almost entirely before breaking down. **”I…I stole m-my father’s…seal. Some gold. And…a-and found a way to get as _far_ away as…as possible…and I…”**

Geralt was gently urging his head back, and for a moment Jaskier was worried that he’d said too much, or gotten too comfortable with the witcher. He was completely caught off guard, and found his body freezing in an entirely new way, as Geralt kissed him. Was he getting that right? The White Wolf was…actually kissing him? It was over far too soon, and he just stared at Geralt, mouth agape. **”That…was not appropriate?”** the witcher asked, when the silence had gone on too long for even him.

Jaskier answered with a second, fervent kiss. How was it that it had taken confronting his past in order to arrive here, with Geralt? Gods damn him! He held the witcher’s face in both hands, kissing him in rapid pecks, before he finally pulled away and _laughed_. This was utterly ridiculous and wonderful, and his tears had stopped. **”Well it’s about time,”** he finally managed to chastise Geralt.

The witcher snickered, slipping a hand under Jaskier’s chin and kissing him again. **”I love you too, bard.”**

**”But I didn’t-”**

**”On the ship. When I was putting you to bed. And you stink of love,”** Geralt teased. A few more tears squished themselves out of Jaskier as he laughed. What lousy timing the witcher had. 

**”Tomorrow we’ll go south.”** Geralt was simply full of surprises, wasn’t he? Jaskier took a breath to ask what he was on about, but found fingers at his lips, shushing him. **”It was a mistake to bring you here. If I’d known…Jaskier, I don’t care about the coin. Not if being here is going to hurt you. Even the ghosts of memories. We’re going back south and getting on the next ship to take us home.”**

Jaskier was crying again, for a completely different reason.  


  


* * *

  


  
The bard awoke with a soft snort, still tangled in Geralt’s arms. They had fallen asleep in a lover’s embrace, after kissing and sharing long, passionate looks with one another. Jaskier had never known the witcher to truly look like that at anyone. Except perhaps Roach. They had fed each other wine, of Dornish vintage, and indulged perhaps a bit too much. Jaskier was still a tad drunk, and in dire need of a piss. He laid there for a long moment, attempting to work out how best to unfold himself without waking Geralt. Eventually he managed it, and slipped quietly out of the tent. He stopped at the opening just to admire the witcher as he slept. It was a rare sight, indeed. 

Jaskier nearly tripped over the line binding their tent to the ground, giggling to himself because of course he would try his very best to not wake the witcher, and end up nearly pitching himself headfirst into their tent. Thankfully he found his footing, stumbling along until he was far enough that Geralt shouldn’t be wakened by the sound of him relieving himself. Then again, a not-so-small part of him _did_ want to wake the witcher, just to continue where they’d left off. 

It took him a few tries to unfasten his trousers, and wasn’t that the damndest thing? Jaskier couldn’t believe that for all the times he’d imagined or wondered if Geralt might enjoy the company of men and outright flirted his ass off to the witcher, he found himself acting rather chaste. Jaskier the Bard, acting like a blushing virgin on her wedding night. Now that was a sure sign that something was not quite right. In any normal night, Jaskier would have attempted to charm the pants off both himself and his current consort. Perhaps that was the thing, then; Geralt was no consort. And Geralt was certainly more than his friend, as he was finding. 

Jaskier sighed in relief when he finally took himself out for a piss. Leaning on the tree, he just hoped that his drunken, half-asleep aiming in the dark was not splashing back onto him. He nearly fell back asleep like that, but caught himself slipping into that comfort. Wouldn’t that be just his luck, though? Falling asleep and landing face first in his own piss. What a disaster. Jaskier was putting himself back together, and jumped when a strong arm slid itself across his belly. 

**”Geralt, you shouldn’t have woken up,”** he giggled, making to turn and kiss the witcher again. Not that he minded, of course, he’d wanted something like this to happen. But instead of turning successfully, a clammy hand covered his mouth in a rough grip. Only then did he realize the arm about his waist was far too short to be Geralt. Jaskier tried to scream for the witcher as he was dragged even further from the campsite, but that hand stopped the sound. 

**”I found you,”** a familiar and eerie voice hissed in his ear. Jaskier was frozen in fear and panic, which of course only allowed Ramsay to drag him with greater ease. _It’s a dream…this is a dream. I’m still asleep on the tree._ He’d had this same dream a thousand times before, and they never ended well. Jaskier whimpered, wondering if he’d brought this on by speaking about it. He squoze his eyes shut and prayed to Melitele that he wake up. Jaskier had to get back to Geralt, he _had_ to. The gods were once again silent as the horror sank into his stomach. Jaskier found himself bound and gagged, dumped into the back of a cart pulled by two horses, speedily heading north. Even if Geralt awoke and left now, he’d have to push Roach at a hard pace to catch up to them.

_Gods, please wake up. Wake up. Wake up…_

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah this is where the boys part ways for a bit. You'll be getting chapter updates for them both individually as their stories progress. I do promise an eventual happy ending, though!


End file.
